


Summertime, and the Loving is Easy

by ProfessorFlimflam



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F, Jazz AU, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-05 12:09:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11577795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorFlimflam/pseuds/ProfessorFlimflam
Summary: The Bernie Wolfe Five had a problem, and he was standing in front of Bernie right now, explaining that they are about to become the Bernie Wolfe Four. Desperate to earn their place at the local hot spot, Bernie and the guys have the summer to try and find a singer to replace Ric "Rocky" Griffin. No-one quite seems to fit the bill, but then Ric introduces his old friend Serena...





	1. Farewell Blues

**Author's Note:**

> Berena Appreciation Week, day 6 - Summer. The rabbit hole gets deeper and deeper, so here we are with another ridiculous AU, and more chapters than I meant it to be... it might run to five, I think.
> 
> If you don't know Chet Baker, check him out. You're going to be hearing his name and wondering what the big deal is. Thank me when you're done x

The Bernie Wolfe Five had a problem, and he was standing in front of Bernie right now, explaining that they are about to become the Bernie Wolfe Four.

“You're quitting because wife - number, what? - five? six? - thinks you're too old for late night gigs? Jesus Ric, it’s barely worth even having the argument, she’ll be replaced within the year if your current streak’s anything to go by. Why have you married someone who thinks you’re ready for your pipe and slippers? Haven’t you convinced her how _vigorous_ you are yet?”

Ric didn’t miss the malicious little barb, but gestured helplessly. “You’ve seen her, haven’t you? You know I can't resist a leggy blonde.”

Bernie snorted. “You’ve managed to resist me all these years, Ric. What’s she got that I haven’t?” He couldn't help himself, his eyes drifting to the neckline of her shirt, open to the third button. “Ah, the pneumatics. I see. I’m losing my front man for the sake of a pair of tits - which, by the way, are _not_ all her own work. Why don’t you just pay someone by the hour? It's probably cheaper than your annual divorce.” She knew she was being harsh, coarse, but she was pissed off. It had taken them a long time and a lot of hard work to get where they were now, and Ric had been almost as big a part of that as she had herself.

Before Ric had joined them, the band was doing ok, had a respectable following on the local jazz scene and had even had the occasional invitation to play at the Duke of Wyvern - though never at the weekend, when the bigger names took centre stage. But Bernie had higher hopes for them, and she had known that what they were missing was a strong vocal lead. She liked the dynamic they had, where each of them would take a few songs, but she knew that none of them were really good enough to carry the band further, and it was time to bring things together with a front man. Ric Griffin, with his handsome features and silvering hair had brought gravitas and sophistication to their little lineup, and his voice had range, and an emotional depth that belied his appalling record with relationships. He was a great interpreter of the standards, and they had gradually raised their standing in the pecking order until they had a regular slot at the Shakespeare on a Saturday night, the Sunday afternoon Lazy Lounge session at Harper's once a month, and they had recently played their second Friday nighter at the Duke this year. It really felt as though they were on the verge of taking a step up, so Ric’s news was a big blow.

“I’m sorry Bernie, really, I am, but - well, maybe she’s right. It does take me longer these days to recover from a gig, even now I’ve gone part time at the day job. When we do the double at the weekends, I don’t really get back on my feet properly until the Tuesday or even Wednesday, and as much as I’d love to break the Duke, I think it's time for me to start winding down, not ramping up.”

Bernie sighed. “Well, I can see you’ve made up your mind and I won’t try and change it - but we’ll miss you, old man. Can you at least tide us over until we find someone else to work with?”

“Of course. Can we say the end of the summer? That gives you two or three months to get someone settled in, and you can start the season with your new lineup. I want next week to be my last Sunday, though - you can manage those between you, hmm?”

Her shoulders slumped in resignation. “Sure. We’ll manage. The guys would probably like a chance to sing again, and Lazy Lounge is the right place for it. We'd better break it to them tonight.”


	2. After You, Who?

After several years of traipsing from one church hall to another, they had scraped together enough gig fees to do up Fletch’s double garage into a half decent rehearsal space, and had spent a couple of weeks one quiet January converting it. They had added sufficient soundproofing to keep the neighbours happy, and Sacha’s friend Dom, a sound engineer at Holby FM, had rigged up a basic recording studio for them. He was practically the sixth member of the band, and he was here this evening as usual, helping Fletch adjust his drum kit. Sacha was tuning up his double bass while Raf noodled about on the piano.

Everyone looked up as Ric closed the door behind him and Bernie, and seeing Bernie’s glum face, Fletch’s welcoming smile dropped from his face.

“Blimey chief, who died?”

Bernie shot a look at Ric. “His independence, apparently. Gents, Ric has decided to spend more time with Bertha or Helga or whatever this one’s called, and this summer is going to be his farewell tour. We’re going to be auditioning for a new set of pipes.”

It was evident that Sacha had already known, but it was news to the younger guys, and there was much backslapping and merciless ribbing about how henpecked Ric had become, and many variations on the theme of putting the old stud out to pasture. Bernie let it play out, then called the boys to order.

“OK, OK, that’s enough for now. We’ve still got the summer to cover with Grandpa Rocky here, so let's make his last hurrah a good one, eh? Let's get down to it.” She picked up her trumpet and warmed up with a doleful wail directed at Ric, segueing into a New Orleans funeral march that was a staple of their trad jazz set. Ric shook his head heavily, knowing that the tone had been pretty well set for his last few months as a working musician.

The energy of the teasing spilled over into the rehearsal, and it ended with a happy jam session, Bernie’s brass duelling with Ric scat singing, before Fletch signalled a big finish with his trademark cymbal riff. Ric was dragged off to the pub, only protesting very mildly, by the younger guys, and Bernie caught Sacha before he joined them.

“Sach, we need to get started with auditions as soon as we can - we’re going to need to work hard to get up to speed with a new guy by September.”

Sacha looked at her, a thoughtful eyebrow cocked. “Guy? You definitely want a bloke again?”

“Huh. Genuinely hadn’t thought about it. You don’t think a woman would upset the balance?”

He looked at her quizzically. “You do realise _you’re_ a woman, Bernie? Look, I know it’s always been you and the boys, but why don’t we take this as an opportunity to play around with a few different voices? Advertise for any voice, any style, see what we get, hey?”

“I’ll think about it. Can you put an ad together, let me have a look at it before you run it? We’ll talk about it with the guys next time. Come on, let’s go and find them. We need to send Ric home to Hildegard as drunk as we can get him.” A wicked glint in her eye, she slapped him on the back and locked up the garage behind them.

* * *

Thirtyseven auditions later, she was cursing him.”If we’d asked for male, classic smoky jazz voice, we’d be home and dry by now.”

“We might not be - we haven’t had anyone like that through the door yet.” Sacha shot back defensively.

“No - we’ve had Robbie the Bobby, Karaoke King; that kid Jasmine - sweet enough voice, but couldn’t remember the words _or_ the tune, and that gangly Swede that belongs in a Kraftwerk tribute band.”

“Don’t be like that. Let's look at the shortlist - who have we got?”

Bernie sighed and ran a long finger down the list, now covered in scrawling notes and scored heavily through at almost every line.

“Morven Shreve - striking girl, good pitch, nice phrasing, but not enough maturity for my liking. Worth hearing again, though. What’s-his-name, the chorus boy. Lofty. Nervous, but a strong voice, nice tone - bit Vegas though, didn’t you think?”

“I know what you mean - but we can work on that with him, tone him down a bit. OK, we’ve got a couple of youngsters who might be good raw material. Who else did you like? I thought the silver fox was pretty good.”

Dom piped up from behind the mixing desk. “Abso-fucking-lutely not.”

Startled by his vehemence, Bernie swung round to face him. “What was wrong with him? He had great delivery - almost as smooth as Ric. Bit of an arrogant twat, but you kind of need that in a front man.”

“You didn’t hear what he said afterwards, did you?” Dom postured, aping the confident stance of the singer. “ _Nice little outfit, considering. Once I get settled in, we’ll lose the horn, I'll bring my bass guy in, and I'm thinking a change of style._ The Isaac Mayfield Experience _, that’s where we’re heading, baby_. Christ, he gave me the heebie jeebies.”

Bernie laughed, the only sound on earth louder than her trumpet. “Seriously? He’s going to chuck Bernie Wolfe out of the Bernie Wolfe Five?”

“You and me both, Bern,” said Sacha in sympathy, “We’re just not part of the Isaac Mayfield Experience.”


	3. The Lady is a Tramp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guess who came to the gig?

Ric’s final Lazy Lounge was a relaxed occasion, and they took the opportunity to try out both Lofty and Morven on a couple of tracks to gauge their rapport with a crowd. Lofty was stronger technically, but Morven had a definite edge who it came to connecting with the punters.

Ric himself was in fine form, enjoying what he kept calling his testimonial. Word had gone out amongst the band’s loyal following that his would be his last Lazy Lounge, and there was a good turnout, and an even better atmosphere. He had drummed up some old pals from his early days as a singer, and having them there seemed to put a bit of fire back into Ric’s singing, which Bernie had noticed had seemed a little tamer since his announcement. She was glad of it, whatever had caused the slump. She understood his reasoning for leaving, but she demanded absolute commitment right up to the last note they played together. If he screwed up, he wouldn’t get an easy time just because he was on his way out.

Bernie was making a few notes during a break, altering the running order slightly to better suit the mood of the room, when Ric came up to her, an attractive full-figured brunette on his arm. _Very attractive_ , Bernie thought.

“Jesus wept, Ric, you’ve not got a new one already? Where’s Brunhilde? Dropped you for a younger model?”

“Very funny. Bernie, I want you to meet my old friend Serena - we sang together in the old days at the Barleymow, before it was taken over by those philistines.”

Bernie smiled at Serena. “One of my very few regrets in life is that I never went there while it was still a jazz joint. Do you still sing?”

“I do, but not in Holby these days. I moved to London when I got married, and I sing with a few outfits there now. Nothing special - never quite found my home, musically, once I left Holby. I should have stayed here - the marriage wasn't worth the journey.” Her words were bitter, but her tone was light - evidently, plenty of water had passed under the bridge.

“Good lord - you’re not the first Mrs Griffin, are you?”

Ric cut in. “I wish she had been - she's the one that got away. Some lucky bastard got to her before I did.”

Serena’s smile was thinner now, but there was a twinkle in her eye. “Bastard yes. Lucky - he probably doesn’t think so now that I’ve got the house and the cash.”

“Ha! Good for you. What keeps you in London these days? Work?”

Serena sighed. “Not really. I’ve stayed for my daughter’s sake up until now - once you find a decent school, you do everything you can to hang on to it, but she’ll be off to university in the autumn, and I do feel a little bit adrift, to tell the truth. Work wise, there’s not much to stay for. I’m a vocal coach, I could probably find work back here - or anywhere these days, now that every kid thinks they’re going to to hit it big on _Britain’s Got Delusions_. I have a few really decent clients, but lately it does seem to be mostly reality show hopefuls. Bit dreary, to tell the truth. If I have to listen to another Whitney-fied version of _Alleluia_ , I swear…”

Bernie, whose ears pricked up at the mention of voice coaching said earnestly, “You should have a word with Morven and Lofty - they could both really do with someone to help bring them on. There’s plenty of talent there, lots of potential, but they need a good shove in the right direction.”

“Do they know that?” Serena was thoughtful. “I agree - very different singers, but they could both be good, I think. Listen, if you’re serious, have a word with them, see if they want to put the work in - and the money. I’m not cheap - but I am good.” She handed Bernie a couple of business cards.

Bernie glanced at Ric, who nodded. “Serena’s the real deal, Bernie. She helped me develop my voice and style, what - twenty years ago? Twenty five? Listen, why don’t you get Serena along to a rehearsal some time soon - you should really hear her sing.”

Chewing the inside of her cheek for a moment, Bernie considered. She never liked to perform in public with an unknown quantity, but she trusted Ric, and if Serena’s speaking voice was anything to go by, they couldn’t go wrong.

“Why not now?” she offered. “How about it - are you in good voice this afternoon, Serena? Want to pick a tune?” She wasn’t surprised when she saw Ric’s triumphant grin: she had had a feeling as soon as she’d heard that Serena was a singer that he’d been engineering things.

“Thought you’d never ask! I’d love to - we’re talking standards, aren’t we?”

“Yep - Lazy Lounge is all about the chill out. We used to try some of our own stuff here, but people like to hear what they know, and this isn’t the place to make them work hard. Come and see us at the Shakespeare if you’re around next weekend - we let our hair down a bit more there.”

Serena’s smile was really something to behold, Bernie thought. “It’s a date! I can tell you’re holding back. I’d love to hear what you can really do. How about _Summertime_ for now, though? Seems to fit the mood and the weather.”

Ric leant a hand on each of their shoulders. “I’ll let the boys know. I can tell that my two favourite ladies are going to make beautiful music together.”

Rolling her eyes, Serena watched him head back over to the bar where Raf and Fletch are, inexplicably, arm-wrestling. “He doesn’t change, does he? Doesn’t occur to him that the latest Mrs Griffin ought to be his favourite lady. What’s this one called?”

“Oh, Zelda? Imelda? I don’t know, I don’t bother learning their names any more. Come on, we’d better get back to it. Get you a drink before we start? Or do you abstain when you’re on stage?”

Serena’s laugh was deep and throaty. “Oh, you’ll learn. Shiraz, please, large as you like. Nothing like it to get me going.” She winked, and Bernie blinked, her mind somewhere quite other for a moment.

“Right you are,” she said, shaking _that_ thought off. “Shiraz and beautiful music it is.”


	4. Lady Be Good

On Ric’s recommendation, Bernie was expecting Serena to be good, and she wasn’t disappointed. She delivered the near-operatic swoops and dives of the melody with a relish that stopped short of parody, and she brought a sensitivity to the song that was difficult to achieve with such a well known number. Bernie had a notion that Summertime wasn’t quite the right song to showcase Serena’s rich, low alto, and even as they played, she was mentally compiling a set list that would bring out the qualities she could hear hinted at in the rich timbre of her voice.

Serena had read the room well, though, and if it wasn’t the right song to make the most of her talents, it was certainly the right song for the moment, and the busy room fell silent as Serena’s voice and Bernie’s plaintive playing captivated the crowd. The song was suffused with a sense of anticipation and an almost disturbing undertone of longing, and Ric, listening from the bar, felt a shiver that belied the heat of the July afternoon. Bernie let the last sob of her trumpet die away, and there was complete stillness for a moment, before the room erupted into applause that went on and on.

Leaning over to grasp Serena’s hand and kiss her cheek, Bernie smiled warmly. “Don't suppose you’d like to move back to Holby would you? You can come and sing with us any time you like.”

Serena laughed. “Don’t think I’m not tempted! I might just take you up on that - I hate to prove Ric right, but we sound good together. Your boys are well trained - how long have you been together?”

“Oh, a good few years now. Sacha and I go way back. Listen, we’re on for another hour or so - are you hanging around? We usually go for food after the Lounge. Join us?”

“Oh, I wish I could. I'm booked on the six thirty back to Paddington, alas. My daughter’s deigning to visit her ancestral home and my presence is required - she’s been bumming round Europe and calling it life experience, which doesn’t seem to have extended to learning to use a washing machine. I’ll catch you before I go, though?”

“Definitely.” Bernie turned back to the mic. “Thank you folks - give it up again for our guest vocalist Serena Campbell!” She led the applause, then without waiting for it to die down completely, counted them into the next number - something rather more upbeat, and hearing the intro, Ric hurried back from the bar to hit his cue. When they were through with the set, and with the numerous encores that Ric’s entourage demanded from the man of the moment, Bernie sought Serena out. She found her in the garden, another large glass of red in one hand, and a cigarette in the other.

“And I had you down as the clean living type,”she deadpanned.

Serena’s eyebrow rose. “Darling, you don't get a voice like mine on fresh air and Ribena. Whatever I tell my clients, sometimes the only way to get soul in your voice is to put it there yourself.”

“Well, whatever you’re doing’s working for you. I hope you will come back and sing with us again? I’ll talk to the kids about coaching - I'd love to see what you make of them. I’ll sound them out - Lofty thinks he’s Frank Sinatra already, mind, so not sure he’ll bite. Morven’s keen to learn, though.”

“‘The kids’ - that’s cute. How about Bernie and the Wolfe Cubs? Let me know, anyway - it’s a genuine offer, and I don’t mind the travelling. Oh, sorry - smoke?”  
  
Bernie shook her head at the offered cigarette case. “Gave up ages ago. This is my only vice now,” she said, clinking the ice in her whisky glass. “Well, maybe not the only one. But a smoker’s cough doesn’t really go with the trumpet. Look, I know you’ve got to head off soon, but I'm really glad we met - thanks again for the jam. Will you let me know if you're coming down this way again soon?” She jotted her number down on a napkin and tucked it into Serena’s handbag.

“Of course - maybe we can go for that meal next time? I’d better go and say goodbye to Ric before he gets summoned by - Velma, was it? I gather he’s on a short leash. I’ll see you soon, Bernie.” She stubbed out her cigarette, and her hand lingered in Bernie’s for a long moment. She held her gaze with a look in her dark eyes that Bernie couldn't quite define, before she turned and slipped through the crown to find Ric. Bernie stood alone for several minutes after she’d gone, her whisky glass pressed to her cheek.


	5. Learnin' the Blues

The conversation with Lofty went about as well as Bernie had anticipated, and eventually they agreed in the most amicable of terms to part company. Bernie put him in touch with an old friend of hers who played a couple of the better clubs in Holby, mostly Rat Pack covers, and Lofty thrived. His technique, his delivery, his stage persona - everything about his style was so much better suited to the kind of showmanship that Ollie’s band excelled at. Bernie was genuinely pleased for the young man, and the fact that his style wasn't hers didn’t mean that she couldn’t appreciate his work. There was always something satisfying about an artist finding their metier, she thought, and she enjoyed his success.

Morven, on the other hand, was thrilled at the notion of working with Serena. Bernie had been hesitant to suggest it after hitting a brick wall with Lofty, but hearing Morven gush about the smoky, velvet tones of the older woman at their next rehearsal, Bernie knew that if Morven could stump up the cash, she would jump at the chance to learn from Serena. She hadn’t been wrong, and Morven had practically been fizzing with energy for the rest of the rehearsal.

“See, this is one of the things I think you need to work on. That energy’s great, but you need to be able to channel it, contain it a bit better. Strong emotions can lead to great music, sure, but you need to control it, not the other way round. You listen to some of the great jazz singers, their power comes from containment, a sense of what they’re holding back. Here - take this and listen to it - tell me what you think next week.” She rummaged in her bag and handed the girl a battered CD case.

Sacha craned his neck to look. “Let me guess, Chet Baker?” Morven nodded enthusiastically, poring over the insert.

“Do you know him?”

“Morv, anyone who’s ever spent more than ten minutes in the company of Bernie Wolfe knows him. I’m surprised it's taken her this long to try and convert you. Chet Baker was one of the greatest jazz trumpeters of the last century.”

“ _The_ greatest,” Bernie corrected him. “He had the sweetest tone, the saddest voice, such restraint…”

“Oh, he’s a singer too?” Morven asked.

“Well, I meant his trumpet voice, but yes, he sang, and you can hardly tell when the singing stops and the playing starts. He’s got this amazing tone, it just carries across from one to the other. Listen to _My funny valentine_ , you’ll hear it there. He says so much, but there’s so much more that he doesn’t say, and that’s the impression you’re left with. Oh, God, I envy you so much - imagine being twenty four and never having heard Chet Baker before!”

“You see?” Sacha smiled. “You’ll never hear Bernie so effusive on any other subject. I have to admit she’s right, though.”

“Of course I'm right. Morven, think about that restraint, that containment - let’s try _So in love_ again and see what you can do with it.”

The next day, Morven phoned Bernie, practically in tears.

“Did you know he died, Bernie? His story’s so sad! I listened to the CD last night when I got home, and I looked him up. I’ve been listening to him all night. Did you know about his drug habit? He went through so much!”

Bernie smiled down the phone. “Yes, Morven, I knew. Maybe I should have picked a cheerier example. Don’t think for a moment that you have to be broken to make great music. Look, give Serena a call and see if you can find a time to meet up. I’m pretty sure she said she’d come down to Holby for sessions - ask Fletch if you can use the garage if you like.”

They chatted for a while, and Bernie made a few more recommendations for Morven to listen to critically. The girl promised to call Serena that evening. “Tell her I said hi.” Bernie rang off, and slapped herself in the forehead with her palm.

“ _Tell her I said hi_ ,” she lisped in cruel, schoolgirlish self parody. “Might as well have asked her to tell her ‘my friend fancies you.’ Idiot”

Because since that Sunday afternoon at Harper's, Bernie hadn’t been able to get the other woman out of her mind. From that first impression as Ric brought her over - a confident, curvaceous woman of her own age - to that last moment, that oddly intimate look they had shared, Serena’s hand warm in her own. And her voice - oh, God, her voice! Bernie thought she’d never heard anything quite as seductive in her life. She had spent the last few days going over the playlist she’d started building for Serena, and imagining the brunette singing in a smoky dive, picked out by a single spotlight through the dark room, singing just for her.

She shook herself, mentally and physically. Ridiculous, she thought. You’ve met the woman once - a smile from a pretty girl and you think you’re in love. Anyway, the days of smoky jazz bars were long gone - it would be all scented vapes now.

***

She was surprised to receive a phone call from Serena herself that evening, not least because she launched straight into conversation without any preamble.

“So, I had a call from your little protégée this afternoon. I hear she wants to be Chet Baker. Couldn’t you have given her a healthier role model?”

“Hello, Serena, nice to hear from you,” Bernie laughed. “Yes, I do seem to have done a number on her. I was trying to teach her about restraint - she’s got a tendency to wear her heart on her sleeve rather. She’ll exhaust herself if she doesn’t learn to channel it a bit better. Is that something you can help with?”

“It is. I am a mistress of restraint, expect when it comes to the shiraz," she replied. “Speaking of which, I’m coming down next Wednesday to start work with Morven - fancy catching up over a glass or two? Or we could go for that meal you promised me?”

“I seem to recall that you promised me, actually - but either way, yes, that would be lovely. Where are you meeting Morven? I’ll find us somewhere nice to go that isn’t too far to travel - are you on the train again?”

“Yes, if we’re going for food and drinks - I don’t want to have to count my units. Actually, I might stop over at Ric’s, that way I won’t have to worry about making the last train.”

Bernie rolled her eyes. “I really wouldn’t advise it. The sixth Mrs Griffin runs a tight ship - there’ll be a curfew to make sure he gets his beauty sleep. Why don't you just stay over at mine instead?” There was a pause, a crackle of static on the line, and Bernie kicked herself. That’s a no, then.

But a moment later, Serena answered brightly, “Sorry, dropped my phone. That would be splendid, if you sure you don’t mind?”

“No trouble at all,” Bernie said in relief. “The spare room’s always ready and waiting. What time do you think you’ll be through with Morven?” They made their arrangements, and chatted for a while longer, finding conversation easy and comfortable.

Eventually, Serena reluctantly drew things to a close. “I could talk to you all night, but I can hear Elinor coming in and I need to catch her before she goes out again - last night she forgot to take a key out with her and got me up at four in the morning to let her in. I’m going to make sure it doesn’t happen again if I have to tie the bloody thing round her neck!”

“All right. It’s been nice to catch up with you. See you on Wednesday, then.”

“It’s a date! Goodnight, Bernie.”

Bernie sat for a while longer, looking her phone.

That was the second time Serena had said that.


	6. You’d Be So Nice To Come Home To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A second meeting - or is it a date?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A minor point, but there's a slight change in personnel - Lofty has actually gone off to sing with Oliver Valentine (previous chapter updated) - I've got something else in mind for Guy Self... Apologies for the confusion, but for those who feel about Guy as I do, you'll enjoy his appearances in the last few chapters ;-)

They met in a restaurant near Bernie’s place, and Bernie was already seated at a table by the window when Serena arrived.

“You were right about Morven’s emotional diarrhoea - good call.”

“Hello, you - don’t you ever start a conversation with a conventional greeting? How did it go? She’s been really hyped up about meeting with you, I hope you managed to calm her down a bit.”

Serena put her bag on the floor by the chair Bernie had pulled out for her, and slung her coat over the back of it. Leaning in to kiss her cheek, she squeezed Bernie’s arm.

“Sorry, terrible habit, I’ll mind my manners in future. Let me go and get a drink and I'll tell you all about it.”

“No need - a bottle of the good stuff’s on its way. Shiraz alright?”

Serena’s smile was nothing short of beatific. “More than. You’re doing all the right things, Ms Wolfe - you’ve brought me a lovely new client, and now my favourite tipple. You keep this up and we’ll get along famously.”

They paused for a moment as a waiter brought the bottle and two glasses, and offered them the menu.

“The food’s good here,” Bernie said. “Quite a good veggie menu, if you’re that way inclined.”

“I am most definitely _not_ ,” Serena emphasised. “I’m afraid I'm a ravening carnivore. Ooh, the tasting menu looks good. I think we’ll settle in for a long one, don’t you?”

And a long one it was, the conversation flowing easily from Serena’s session with Morven, to how their respective weeks had gone, to shared acquaintances.

“Well well, so you’ve left young Lofty to the mercies of Oliver Valentine! If his ego survives that he’s made of sterner stuff than I thought.”

“Oh, come now, Serena, Ollie's not that bad! Well, no, actually, he is. But he’s exactly what Lofty needs, I think - he’ll knock him into shape. When Lofty auditioned with us, we nicknamed him the Chorus Boy - Ollie might be able to turn him into a leading man.”

“Ha! And what was Morven’s nickname?”

“I don’t think we gave her one - she had enough character to seem like a real person right from the start. What did you make of her?”

Serena sat back, swirling the dark wine round her glass. “Oh, lovely, lovely girl. And so eager to learn - not eager to please, that’s different - just really receptive to constructive criticism. The perfect client, really. People are so often affronted when you point out where they can improve, and you think - well, why come to me in the first place if you don't want to learn? I think she’s got heaps to offer, you know? We’re playing with her register a bit - she tends to rely on her head a bit too much - _more_ bloody melisma, though she does do it beautifully. We’ll work on bringing it down here a bit,” and she tapped two fingers against her sternum. Bernie’s gaze lingered there for a moment, then dragged back up to Serena's face.

“Sounds good. Worth persevering with, then?”

“Oh, definitely. We’ve scheduled fortnightly sessions, so you'll be seeing more of me!” she beamed.

“I’m glad to hear it. Will you come and sing with us again? I’d like to get you along to one of our Saturday gigs some time. Lazy Lounge is fine, but it’s all just crowd pleasing stuff really, and our own work’s a bit different. Come along to the Shakespeare some time?”

Comparing diaries, they looked at rehearsal dates and free weekends, and booked a session in a few weeks’ time. As they chatted, the restaurant gradually emptied, and eventually the waiter brought their bill unbidden.

“I think that's a hint. Let’s let the poor lad get home - do you fancy going on somewhere else for a nightcap?”

Bernie wavered for a moment. “We can do - or I've got a pretty well stocked cocktail cabinet at home?”

“Home it is, then. Lead the way!”

Serena looked approvingly round Bernie’s living room, heading straight for the vinyl collection in an alcove. “Pick something out if you like,” Bernie called as she went through to the kitchen to collect a couple of glasses and a bucket of ice. “Or wake up the Mac - there’s a ton of playlists to save us DJ-ing.”

As she came back into the room, tumblers in hand, the strains of Chet Baker’s mournful voice eased through the slim speakers on the bookshelf. “Ah,” she sighed, “My boy. If this had been a test, you’d have passed with flying colours.” Moving to the other alcove, Bernie opened a cupboard door. “What’s your poison?”

Serena’s jaw dropped at the display of bottles on the illuminated glass shelves: row upon row of every conceivable spirit, with a definite lean in favour of gin and whisky. “Oh, Bernie. I think I might be in love!”

Bernie blushed, swiping a hand through her long fringe. “Well, a girl’s got to have a hobby. What will you have? Or there's wine, if you want to stick with the grape?”

“Oh, no, it would be most remiss of me to pass up an opportunity like this. Chet’s putting me in the mood for a whisky - what do you recommend?” Bernie looked at her appraisingly for a moment, then held up a finger - _wait there_ \- and slipped back out to the kitchen, returning a moment later with a jug of water and a dozen shot glasses.

Serena’s eyes widened, and Bernie shrugged. “Tasting menus aren’t just for restaurants,” she said, and thoughtfully selected a few bottles, pouring less than a single measure of each into the shot glasses. They worked their way diligently through them, first without, then with a drop of water, sharing tasting notes which got more and more outlandish the deeper into drink they got.

“Mountain mists and ripe apricots.”

“Vanilla creme brûlée with a top note of creosote.”

“Peaty, with a hint of drover’s undercrackers.”

Weeping with laughter, Bernie poured them both a tall glass of water, and gradually their laughter subsided. “I knew as soon as we met that you’d share my passion. Oh, it’s so nice to meet another woman our age in the business.”

“Isn’t it?” Serena agreed. ”I must thank Ric for introducing us. It feels as though I’ve known you forever - why is that, do you think?” She reached over, tangling her fingers in Bernie’s, seemingly fascinated by the way they interlocked.

Trying to ignore the thumb softly stroking her palm, Bernie offered, “Hmm, shared experience, a shared language? I suppose those of us who survive the bias against female musicians must be made of stern stuff - there must be something special about us to have made it to this grand old age and still be knocking out the tunes.” She ducked her head to catch Serena’s eye for a moment. “I feel very comfortable with you, too. I don’t always, with new people. But you don’t feel like a new person.”

Bernie felt time tilt and slide, as she took in Serena’s soft skin, her even softer smile, and the almost shy look she was giving Bernie in the soft glow of the side lamp. Then, as soon as she had felt it, the moment had passed, as the playlist jumped to _Lullaby of Birdland_.

She smiled, a wide, sleepy smile. “I think that’s our cue. Come on, I’ll show you your room.” She stood, their fingers still linked, only letting her hand drop as she pushed open the door to the spare room. “All mod cons, breakfast provided, just leave a tip on the pillow when you leave.” She pointed out the bathroom, the clean towels she’d left out, and wished Serena good night. As she turned towards her own bedroom, Serena pulled her back, snagged her hand with one finger, holding it loosely between them.

“I’ve had the loveliest evening, Bernie. Thank you.” She leaned in and kissed Bernie lightly on the cheek, lingering for just a moment before smiling a last “goodnight” and closing the door between them.

***

In the morning, they just about had time for a hasty breakfast of coffee and a pastry at the station before Bernie saw her onto her train.

“You’d better find your seat, get settled in. I think it’s about to go,” Bernie fussed. Serena looked up at the clock and nodded. She hugged Bernie tightly, almost fiercely. “I’ll see you very soon. Look after yourself.”

Practically pushing her on to the train, Bernie wrapped her arms around herself. “I will. You too - safe journey.” She closed the door and watched Serena make her way along the carriage to her seat. As the train pulled away, she realised that neither of them had said goodbye. She watched the train ease out of the station around the long curve of the track, and then she stood for several minutes, her arms still tightly about herself, watching the empty track.


	7. Like Someone In Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bernie's told you all about Chet Baker: now let her introduce you to the flugelhorn. It's got a much softer, mellower tone than the trumpet, and it's far more beautiful than its name.

“Sounds like someone’s got a crush on Serena Campbell,” Fletch said slyly, sliding up against Bernie’s shoulder.

“What?” Flustered, Bernie turned away under the pretence of adjusting her music stand.

“Morven hasn’t stopped talking about her since she got here - _Serena this, Serena that, Serena says_ … “

“Oh, yes, Morven… she’s really taken with her, isn't she? Sounds as though it’s going well by all accounts. Serena says she’s quite the model student. Listen, I hope you don’t mind, but I asked Serena if she wanted to come and sing with us at the Shakespeare at the end of the month. She’s going to come along to rehearsal on the twenty fourth.”

“Mind? Course not, it’ll be a treat - easy on the ears, easy on the eyes…” Fletch waggled his eyebrows, and Bernie slapped his arm.

“You’re a pig, Fletch. I mean, you’re not wrong - but you’re a pig.”

“Ah, but you’d noticed, though, hadn’t you? Tenner says she’s on your team.”

“I refer you to my earlier statement - you’re a pig. And you’re wrong - she’s happily divorced.”

Undeterred, Fletch persisted. “Ah, but you _would_ be happy to be shot of a husband if you were leaning the other way, wouldn’t you? I seem to recall a certain Mr Dunn…”

Bernie groaned. “Oh, don’t remind me. The indiscretions of youth. Ah, well, we all make mistakes. Anyway, enough about Ms Campbell’s leanings or otherwise. She’ll be our guest, so no idle speculation, please. I swear, you’re the most gossipy straight bloke I know.”

Morven’s first lesson with Serena already seemed to be paying off, and she was keen to try out a few new techniques and ideas in the rehearsal. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and they stayed on long after they had run through the numbers for that Saturday's Shakespeare set, improvising and playing around. Bernie eventually reined them in, much as she was enjoying it.

“OK folks, let's leave something in the tank for Saturday. Take it easy this week if you can, we’ve got a nice set lined up so let's make sure we can give it the energy it deserves.”

***

Bernie managed to take her own advice that week, and Saturday evening saw her relaxed, but buoyant with the nervous energy that she always felt before trying out new songs in public for the first time. They were playing a new number tonight, Bernie’s own work, and she was looking forward to seeing the kind of reception it would get. Her usual pattern was to write, rewrite and rework over and over until she reached a version she was happy with, but this number had come to her almost fully formed, and she hadn’t felt that it needed the kind of iterative process she normally went through.

Dom was already setting up when she got there, and she went over the running order with him one last time. “Just one last minute change if you don’t mind, Dom - can you kill the mic for my horn on the new song?”

“You sure? You’re going to need a quiet room for it…” he scribbled on his set list, noting the change.

“I think we’ll have a quiet room. They'll be in the mood already from _I get along without you_. It’s a pretty contemplative little section. Let's play it by ear. Ramp it up a bit if you think it needs it, but I really want the intimacy of playing direct with no mic if we can get away with it.”

“OK - you’re the boss, boss.” He saluted and carried on hooking up the kit according to a hand-drawn plan that only he could make sense of.

***

As usual, there was a good turn out. The Shakespeare was in the heart of town, near the waterfront, and caught plenty of passing trade as well as the regulars who came for the music. The band was used to all the comings and goings at the door and at the long bar during their set, and had long since learned to ignore the distraction. Things tended to settle down towards the end of the evening, and their set lists were planned around the peaks and troughs of business.

By the time they reached the mellow, introspective section that Bernie had put together to showcase the new song, the room had indeed settled down, and the lighting rigged up over the small stage meant that they could only really see people seated at the first few tables, who all seemed enthralled by Morven’s soft tones and the subtle thread of countermelody Bernie wove beneath her voice. A quiet but warm ripple of applause met the dying notes of _I get along without you very well_ , and Bernie stepped up to the mic.

“We’re going to play you something new now. Morven gets to take a break, because it's so new it doesn’t have words yet, so you can fight over who gets to buy her a drink.” She turned to put down her trumpet, swapping it for the flugelhorn waiting on the stand, and took a moment or two to warm it up. She stepped back briefly to the mic and said simply, “It’s called _Wish You’d Stay_.”

She gave Dom the nod to mute the mic, and counted Sacha in. Raf’s keys joined in a few bars later, and then Bernie raised the horn to her lips and played.

The room fell impossibly more silent as she wound the poignant melody through Raf and Sacha’s simple accompaniment. She closed her eyes against the lights, the candles on the tables, the keen gaze of the punters. Instead, she let the memory of the evening she had spent with Serena fill her mind: the softness of the other woman’s gaze, the warmth of her laugh, the tenderness of that caress as she had held her hand. The mellow tone of the flugelhorn softened and swelled, soared and swooped as she recalled the moment time had been suspended, and that odd, intimate hesitation when Serena kissed her goodnight. Her last thought as she brought the song to its dying bars was of the sight of the train that had taken Serena away from her, and the thought that had run through her head over and over as she had stood on the platform; _I wish you'd stay_.

The silence stretched for a long moment before Bernie opened her eyes, still slightly lost in the music, and as the applause started, her attention was drawn by a clink of glasses at the bar, where to her bewilderment, Serena herself stood, her eyes shining with unshed tears. Bernie thought for a moment that she had conjured her up, an apparition that no-one but her could see, then the spell broke as Serena smiled shakily at her.

Sacha, seeing Bernie so uncharacteristically distracted, counted them into the next number over the ongoing applause, and Morven hurried back to the stage. Bernie glance down at the set list and hastily decided that she could sit this one out, and Sacha nodded in understanding as he saw her make her way over to the bar. He muttered briefly to Raf about the change of plan, and they seamlessly altered the arrangement to fill in for the missing horn.

Bernie ignored the congratulations, the back slaps and handshakes as she made her way through the crowd to the bar, where Serena grasped both her hands. “It doesn’t need words, Bernie. It’s perfect.”

Bernie drew her in tightly for a hug, half whispering, half murmuring, “You're here!”

Serena held her close, then laid a palm briefly to her cheek before stepping back a little, and said, “Yes, love, I’m here. I had to be in Holby today for business at short notice, and I thought I’d come and hear you. My God, I'm glad I did. That was extraordinary, Bernie, truly. Here, you look as though you could use this.” She handed her a tumbler clinking with ice, and Bernie gratefully sipped the whisky as she felt her heart rate return to normal.

“I have to get back up there - are you staying?”

“Until chucking out time, but I have to get home tonight, I’m afraid. Loose ends to tie up.”

Bernie tried to hide her disappointment, and Serena hurriedly added, “But I’ll be back in town on Wednesday to see Morven - any chance of a night at the Bernie Wolfe B&B again?”

“Dinner thrown in for good measure if you play your cards right.” Bernie’s smile was so open and unguarded that Serena's heart hurt for a moment.

“Wonderful. Go on, go and finish your set and I’ll have a drink waiting for you.”

Bernie made it back to the stage as the number finished, and she played out the remainder of the set, for once impatient to get it over with. She usually hung around the bar after a gig with the rest of the band to chat with their regular followers, but tonight, even as they took their last bow, her eyes were searching the crowd to see where Serena was. She had bagged a small table in a dark corner, and Bernie cut through the throng as quickly as she could to reach her. A bottle of whisky stood next to an empty glass, and Serena explained, “I wanted to buy you a drink but the barman wouldn't let me. He says just take the bottle back when you’re done.”

“That's Matt,” Bernie said. “He’s the landlord, he does that from time to time - he looks after us well. He must have been impressed tonight.”

Serena leaned across the table to grip her hand again. “No wonder, Bernie, you were wonderful. Your new song, the instrumental - it’s so beautiful. Is there a story to it?”

“There is,” Bernie murmured, looking deep into her whisky glass. “I might tell it to you some day. Do you really have to get home tonight?”

“I do, I really do. I’ve got paperwork that has to be signed yesterday - I’m on a bit of schedule with it all.”

“It sounds as though there's a story there, too - tell me all about it on Wednesday?”

Half an hour later, Serena rose reluctantly to her feet. “I really must head off - the roads should be pretty clear now. You should go and hang out with the band, I’ve been monopolising you. I’ll see you on Wednesday, Bernie.”

After she had gone, Bernie nursed her glass for a few minutes more, then forced herself to join the others at the bar. She felt strangely melancholy, despite the success of the new number, and it took Morven’s excitable chatter to raise her spirits again.

“You know you said about fighting to buy me a drink? These two guys nearly did, but Serena shut them down, and then _she_ bought me a drink. She's great, isn’t she?”

Bernie smiled fondly at the girl.

“Yes, she is.”


	8. Hit the Road to Dreamland

By the time Wednesday came around, Bernie’s mood had soured, and Serena wondered if she’d made a mistake presuming on their burgeoning friendship. They had met in the same restaurant, and sat with a glass in front of them, but Bernie had waved the waiter away when he had brought the menus over.

“You might not be hungry, but I am,” Serena complained. “Would you rather go somewhere else?”

“No, this is fine,” Bernie scowled, not meeting her eye.

Serena looked at her for a long moment, then put her glass down very deliberately and folded her hands on the table.

“OK, out with it. What’s the matter? You’ve barely looked at me since I got here, and I’m starting to feel like a puppy that’s been kicked. What have I done wrong?”

Bernie finally looked at her properly, a guilty look on her face. “Oh, Serena, I’m sorry. I'm being such a bitch. I had some bad news today, and I’m taking it out on you. I've so been looking forward to you coming, and now I treat you like this. Honestly, it’s nothing that you’ve done. I know I’m not behaving like it, but I'm so glad you're here. You might just be able to redeem this shitty day, if you’ll forgive me?”

“Darling Bernie, of course I forgive you - I'm just relieved it's nothing I’ve done. Tell me your shitty news, and then we’ll drink it under the table.”

Bernie gave her a grateful smile, the first she’d cracked all day. “How do you know just the right thing to say? I don’t deserve a friend like you. Well. Do you know Guy Self, at the Duke of Wyvern? Did your paths ever cross?”

“Guy… yes, I remember him. He used to work the bar there, thought he was God’s gift. I threw a pint of snakebite and black over him once, he was furious - his best suit. Ha! He’s still there, then?”

“Mm hmm. He's their Ents manager now, does a pretty good job, though to be honest, all he really has to do is keep people in the queue - everyone wants to play there, me included. I’d been in conversation with him for a few weeks about a residency. We’ve been trying to break the Duke for a few years now, and it really felt as though we were getting somewhere. Next thing I know, all talks are off, and Morven’s crying in the toilets…”

“Oh, surprise me - he’s not changed his spots, then. I don’t suppose Morven drinks snakebite and black, does she?”

To Serena's surprise, Bernie laughed, a full throated honk that startled the waiter into attention.

“No - Pernod and black! God knows why - foul stuff - but he stank of Liquorice Allsorts for the rest of the day!”

Serena crowed. “Good for her! I knew she had it in her. Is she ok? He didn’t frighten her?”

Bernie shook her head. “No, like you say, she’s a tough kid. She was crying because she thought she’d blown our big chance, which of course she hadn’t - as a if I'd expect anyone to pay that kind of price for a spot in the limelight - but she was inconsolable for a while. Didn't she say anything tonight?”

“No, she was a bit subdued, but she put in the work, musically - I’m impressed. She’s learning to manage her emotions a bit better, I’d say. Well. Fuck Guy Self, and fuck the Duke of Wyvern. It’s good, but it's not the only place in town. Now, are we eating here or not?”

Deciding on a change of scene to reboot their evening, Bernie paid for the wine, and they walked along the waterfront and picked somewhere a bit less formal. Returning from the bar with a bottle of the Shiraz that Bernie was coming to expect, Serena set it down and settled back into her chair.

“I believe I promised you a story last time I saw you. Are you sitting comfortably? Good - then I’ll begin.”

Bernie poured two generous glasses and sat back, intrigued.

“Once upon a time, there was a young singer. Let’s call her _Serena_. Serena was talented, but naïve. She sang with some of the best bands in Holby and was starting to make quite a name for herself. She was doing very nicely, thank you, but she allowed herself to be swept off her feet by a handsome young doctor. Dr Campbell was a surgeon, and an ambitious one at that. The day after their wedding - I mean _literally_ on the first day of their marriage - he told her that he’d accepted a prestigious position at one of the bigger London teaching hospitals.”

Bernie broke in, aghast. “He took a job in another city and didn’t tell you?!”

“Oh, it gets better - he tried to pass it off as a wedding present.” Serena had broken character now, and went on. “I mean, can you imagine? _I did it for you, darling, you’ll hit the big time in London, you'll be at Ronnie Scott's every night, they’ll be tripping over to sign you up_. Which, you may be sure, they were not. I lost the momentum that I’d had here, I didn't have any contacts in London, didn’t have any idea how to make them. His career took off, mine took a nose dive.”

“Jesus, what a twat.”

“Oh, had I already told you my pet name for him? Yes, that just about sums him up. Well. He got on at work, he was quite a charmer, and that worked well for him. I, on the other hand, sang less and less, found it harder to get repeat gigs. It was a kind of relief when I realised I was pregnant - I couldn’t hang around in smoky bars with a bun in the oven, could I? And after Elinor was born, well, that was that. It wasn’t until she was at secondary school that I even started to think about it again - started small, little local clubs, got to know a few people...”

Serena took a long swig of her wine.

“Anyway. Back to the story. The charming Dr Campbell, while working his way up the ranks, was also working his way through the nursing staff. I’d suspected for a while, tried to ignore it, tamp it down. What I didn’t know couldn't hurt me, that sort of thing. Only of course it did. And then I caught him at it. I went to see him at work, to surprise him, and boy, did I surprise him. And then not long after that, I surprised him again, this time with divorce papers. He didn't have a leg to stand on, of course - he was successful, but by this point not particularly well liked at work - my god, Bernie, never piss off a nurse, they were queuing up to give evidence. So - long story short - successful surgeon, good salary, nice house in Chelsea: poor little wifey at home with a young child - well, you can imagine, the court was very sympathetic. Poor little wifey is now very comfortable little wifey. Here endeth the first lesson.”

She took another long draught of wine, stopping just as Bernie thought she was going to down the whole thing.

“Except, as it turns out, there was a post script, one which I only found out about this year. Ric, bless him, still sees Edward from time to time at work things, and he was kind enough to let me know about a very interesting conversation they had at a conference in February. Edward, who by the way has never been able to hold his drink, let slip that he had squirrelled away what I can only describe as a metric fuck-ton of money back when we were still going through the divorce, and gloated over how he’d pulled the wool over my eyes. Now, Ric may be a serial womaniser, but he’s always been a darn sight more loyal to his friends that he's ever been to his many wives.”

Bernie was leaning forward in her seat now, trying to make sense of it all. “So what happens now? Back to court?”

Serena looked like the cat who’d got the cream. “Oh, no, Edward’s very keen to avoid going to court to tell them how he basically defrauded me, so we came to an amicable agreement.”

Bernie raised an eyebrow. “Define amicable?”

Looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, Serena clarified. “I amicably suggested he give me the money: Edward agreed that he didn't want to go to prison.”

“You blackmailed him? My kind of girl!” Bernie applauded. “So this is what you were up to at the weekend - this was the urgent signature you had to get back for, before he changed his mind?”

Shaking her head, Serena said “All that was sorted out a few months ago. He really did capitulate pitifully quickly - I'd been hoping for a bit of a tussle. No, I told you I had business here in Holby.” She took a sheaf of papers from the handbag and smoothed them out on the table. “Do you recognise this?”

Bernie looked at the photo. “The Cat and Fiddle? That old dive? I’ve never known a more mismanaged pub in my life. Prime spot, lovely building, and the fuckwit’s let it get to that state. It's always empty when you go past, I don’t know how he keeps it open.”

The cat, having had the cream, now had the canary too. “He doesn’t. It went up for sale last week. Meet the new owner.” She held out her hand, and Bernie took it in a daze.

“You bought the Cat and Fiddle? Are you mad?”

“I told you the Duke isn’t the only place in town. Look, I've made a start already. I’ve had some plans drawn up - early days, but I’ve got a pretty good idea of what it’s going to look like.”

Bernie leafed through the designs, her head in a whirl. Mostly they were interiors, exposed brick, industrial style decor, with a speakeasy kind of feel. One sheet showed a few variations on a logo for the Black Cat, with the silhouette of a cat playing the piano.

“You’re opening a jazz bar? Serena, that’s amazing! You’re amazing!”

Serena laughed. “The feeling’s mutual, Bernie. How would the Bernie Wolfe Five like to take up residency as the Black Cat’s house band?”

Bernie didn’t know what to say and just shook her head in disbelief. “You dark horse, you. I can’t believe this. It looks fantastic - you really think you can pull it off?”

“I do. I really do - and I mean it, I want you to think about it, talk it over with the band - but I so hope you'll say yes.” Her eyes were shining, her excitement barely contained as she beamed at Bernie.

"Who's going to run it for you? Have you got a manager in mind? I know a few people who might be interested - I can ask around if you like?"

Serena smiled and pushed another piece of paper across the table.

“You missed a sheet.”

Bernie looked down at the page, different from the rest. It showed a photo of a red brick semi-detached house on a street not far from her own. She looked up at Serena, wide eyed.

“You’re moving back to Holby? To Naylor Road? Oh, Serena!” Ignoring the waiter bearing down on them with their plates of tapas, she pushed her chair back, pulled Serena to her feet and threw her arms around her. “I can’t tell you how glad I am.”

Pulling back just a little, Serena smiled gently, brushing Bernie’s fringe back out of her eyes. “I think I can tell how glad you are. Me too.” She gave Bernie a last squeeze, and said “Come on, let’s eat. We mustn't frighten every waiter in Holby tonight.” They sat back down and started picking over the tapas, but Bernie could hardly settle, she was so thrilled by Serena’s news. Taking residency at a new jazz bar that looked certain to be a success was a huge step up for the band, but so much more than that, her heart was racing at the thought of Serena living in Holby, and just round the corner at that.

Still enjoying Bernie’s reaction, Serena refilled her glass, topping Bernie’s up at the same time. “Now then, Bernie Wolfe - your turn. You owe me a story - you promised to tell me about your beautiful song.”

Bernie’s heart stilled for a moment, and she looked searchingly at Serena, and made a decision. “And I will. Let’s eat first, though, then we’ll go for a walk and I’ll tell you all about it.”

They strolled along the harbourside, Serena's arm tucked into the crook of Bernie’s elbow. It was a perfect summer evening, the first few stars piercing the indigo of the twilight sky. The air was warm and still, and the houseboats and tall ships were barely swaying on the water. Bernie’s tone was light, conversational, and for once, the words came easily to her. There was something about walking side by side that allowed her to speak freely, all her usual reserve falling away.

“I’m not going to give you an answer about the Black Cat yet. I want to tell you about the song, then you can see if you still want to make the offer.”

“I can't imagine anything you could say that would make me want to retract it, Bernie.”

“I hope that’s true. It's been so wonderful getting to know you, Serena. I love the boys, and Morven’s a sweetheart, but you - well, there’s something about having friends your own age, with all those things in common. But it’s more than that, isn't it? We’ve both said how it feels as though we’ve known each other for ever, and I _never_ have that instant friendship with people - but we seem to have had it right from the moment we met.”

She risked a glance at Serena, who smiled encouragingly, sensing that Bernie didn’t need a response, just to know that it was ok. They slowed and stopped on the bridge, leaning up against the rail, looking out over the water, the fairy lights in the trees reflected below them.

“When you stayed over the other week, that evening - everything just felt so _right_ about it. I don’t have many guests - I value my own space too much, but I lay in bed thinking how nice it was to have you in the house, how normal it felt, how comforting it was, somehow, to think of you just the other side of the wall. And then I had to put you on a train and watch you go. I stood and watched the train pull out, watched you go back to your life, and I just stood there for - I don’t know, it felt like hours. And then I went home and I wrote _Wish you’d stay_. I wrote it for you, Serena. It’s your song, because all I wanted was for you to stay with me.”

She turned to look at Serena, strangely calm now that she had told her story. Serena was gazing up at her, her expressive eyes glistening with tears and starlight. She lifted a hand and brushed the back of her fingers along Bernie’s cheekbone, letting her hand settle on her neck.

“And all I wanted was to stay. I couldn't stay away from you, Bernie.” Her other hand rose to Bernie’s face, and she drew her in for the sweetest kiss. Bernie brought her arms up around Serena’s waist, her shoulders, and pulled her closer, deepening the kiss, stroking gently along her shoulder blade.

“Serena,” she murmured. They stood breathless for a long moment, foreheads touching. It was Serena who lifted her head, tugged gently at Bernie’s hands.

“Take me home.”


	9. All of Me

For all the urgency they felt between them, they walked back to Bernie’s slowly, hand in hand at first, then, needing to be closer, arm in arm. The night and the newness of the intimacy between them were too lovely to be rushed, and they took their time wandering through the quiet streets, talking in a low murmur.

“People will say it’s too soon, too quick,” warned Bernie.

“People don’t matter, only you and me. Does it feel too soon to you?”

Bernie chuckled. “You’re asking the woman who gave you her phone number the first time we met. No, it’s not too soon - not a moment too soon. I wasn’t sure if you would want it, though. All those goodnight kisses and hugs just about killed me - I know I’ve talked a lot about restraint, but you’ve pushed me to my limits!”

Serena bumped her hip against Bernie’s. “I've never been more than friends with a woman before - never wanted to, but I was so drawn to you from the start. I felt so at ease with you, and then hearing you play - oh, I could have fallen in love with you just for that.”

“Is that what this is, Serena?”

They stopped under a streetlight, Bernie’s hair gleaming like gold.

“Oh, yes, I think so - don’t you?” Serena replied simply, and Bernie looked at her, her face open and trusting, and took her hand again.

“Yes. I think it is.”

They walked on wordlessly for a few minutes, then Serena continued.

“And then we met up again, and we spent that wonderful night eating and drinking and talking and laughing. When you showed me the spare room, I thought, I don’t need this, I need to be closer to you, not further away. I lay there wishing I was brave enough to knock on your door, but I didn’t want you to think it was the whisky talking - and I didn’t know if you’d welcome it, either. Then at the station, oh, I didn't think I’d be able to let go of you.”

“It was maudlin of me, watching the train go, but I couldn’t seem to look away. I kept thinking _I wish you’d stay, I wish you’d stay_ \- and that stuck with me until I’d got it out in the music.”

Serena squeezed her hand tightly. “I didn’t mean to stay that evening at the Shakespeare. I thought I’d just drop in and hear you play, not even say hello, just pop in on my way home - but I couldn't tear myself away. I think I knew, about the song. You looked so unbearably sad, and then I just couldn’t leave.”

“I’m not sad now, Serena.”

They had reached Bernie’s front door, and she kissed her almost chastely before unlocking the door and ushering her in. Leaving Serena’s bag in the living room, they ascended the stairs, still hand in hand. Without a beat, they carried on past the spare room, the sheets unchanged since Serena’s previous visit, and Bernie pushed open the door to her own room, turning on the bedside lamp before drawing Serena to her again.

Their loving was slow and tender. The urgency they had felt earlier had dissipated, and they took their time learning each other’s bodies. There was nothing strange or foreign to Serena in making love to Bernie, and she delighted in giving the kind of pleasure she understood. Bernie’s arousal against her fingers felt so familiar to her, and a voice in her head said _there you are_ , as if this was what she had been seeking for years. The feeling of Bernie’s soft skin, her hair whispering against Serena’s aroused body, was so very different to anything she'd known before that it felt like a entirely new act, and she was astonished to think that she was fifty, and only now discovering what her body knew that she hadn’t.

Bernie came with Serena’s fingers inside her, her thumb stroking her gently, and Serena marvelled at the sight of Bernie’s flushed chest, her dark eyes, and her beautiful mouth, open in a silent cry. She took a moment to recover herself, then rolled over with a groan that was almost a purr, and stretched languorously along Serena’s body, sliding against and into her until Serena shook with her own release, smiling into Bernie’s neck. Bernie gentled her, stroking her hair, her cheek, kissing her slowly back to herself. She hummed quietly against the top of Serena’s head as she held her, then laughed a little as she realised what she was humming.

“ _Wish you’d stay_ ,” she whispered. 

Serena sleepily raised her head to look up at her.

“I will, Bernie. I’ll always stay.”


	10. Get Happy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's opening night at the Black Cat!

“I wish you’d opened this place before I quit the band,” Ric sighed. “It’s so much better for us than the Duke - I know the spit and sawdust feel is part of the appeal, but this is so much more sophisticated - it’s spot on for Bernie.”

Serena smiled warmly at him. “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have been able to open it at all. I shall be forever grateful that you can hold your drink better than my sorry excuse for an ex-husband.”

“Glad to be of service. You could always name something after me if you like? The _Ric Griffin Cocktail Bar_ has a ring to it, don’t you think?”

“The _Ric Griffin Ladies’ Bar_ might be more to the point,” Bernie commented, nudging him out of the way to put her arms around Serena’s waist. “We’re all good to go, love - whenever you want to make the big announcement.”

Serena turned in the circle of her arms to give her a quick kiss. “Let's do it, then, shall we? Off you go.” She gave Bernie a quick pat on the backside as she sent her off to join the rest of the band on the stage. Waiting until Bernie was settled in place with her trumpet in hand, Serena made her way over and up the short flight of stairs to join her. She nodded at Dom to turn the mic on, and Fletch gave a rumble on the cymbal to draw the crowd’s attention. As the buzz of chatter died down, Serena spoke.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for being here tonight for the opening night of the Black Cat. I started my singing career here in Holby, more years ago than I care to remember, and I'm delighted to be able to welcome you to a new venue dedicated to showcasing the best in jazz - and I do mean the best. As well as the exciting programme of guests we’ve got lined up for you this autumn, we’re proud to be partnering with the Holby College of Music to support their Developing Musicians programme, and every week we’ll be highlighting new artists and helping bring on their style and musicianship.”

She paused to acknowledge the ripple of polite applause.

“However, we’re not just about good music and good works here at the Black Cat. To reflect the sophistication of our musical offerings, we bring you a cocktail menu to rival the greatest excesses of Prohibition, and my own personal indulgence, an _extensive_ wine list.”

The applause this time was louder, and a warm ripple of laughter met her confession.

“Speaking of sophistication, without further ado I’d like to introduce you to the Black Cat’s house band, whom of course many of you already know and love. I certainly do. Ladies and gentlemen, please show your appreciation for the Bernie Wolfe Five!”

She stepped away from the mic, leading the riotous applause as Bernie counted them into their first number. She stood close to the stage for a while, gazing up at Bernie as she played, still not quite able after all this time to believe her own good fortune. Bernie caught her eye and winked, and she blushed furiously, _like a teenager_ , she thought. She moved away from the front of the room to recover her composure, to circulate, and to meet and greet her clientele.

It was an invited audience tonight, with all the band’s regular followers, many of the old gang that she and Ric had sung with twenty or thirty years ago, various worthies from the music college, and a scattering of journalists. Dom had arranged a brief live broadcast section on Holby FM, and she recognised several music critics from the local press. Her eyes narrowed as she recognised someone she certainly hadn't invited.

“Hello Guy. Checking out the competition?” She took a childish satisfaction in seeing Guy Self jump out of his skin.

“Serena! Long time no see. How are you these days - have you got over me yet?”

Her voice, usually wam and welcoming, was as steely as the look she gave him. “I rejoice to say I was never under you. Here for another pop at my singer, are you?”

He put his hands up defensively. “Woah, woah, just a bit of fun. Can’t blame a bloke for trying.”

“Can't I? She’s younger than your daughter.”

“All right, all right,” he grumbled. “Nice place you’ve got here. Bit fancy - not sure it's what people want, but your funeral, eh. Pretty good sound - who’s your sparks?”

“Oh, piss off Guy. Stop fishing. You’ve got your place, I’ve got mine, never the twain shall meet. You turned down Bernie and her band, which is very much your funeral, actually, as you can plainly hear. You cause any trouble tonight and you'll be out on your ear. Now, hop it.”

Knowing better than to pick a fight tonight, Guy slunk off into the crowd, and Serena turned to see Ric grinning at her. “Nicely handled. I was ready to pop him one if you needed help.”

She squeezed his arm affectionately. “You big brute, you. I could quite fancy you if I didn’t have my eye on a certain leggy blonde.”

“Well, I always said we had a lot in common,” he laughed.

At the end of their first set, Bernie came to find her, and Serena’s face lit up as she saw her, bright-eyed and flushed from the music, the lighting and the sheer joy of the night. Bernie hugged her, and swiped her drink.

“Oi, get your own! You’re sounding marvellous, darling. Morven’s very good, isn’t she?”

Handing the glass back, Bernie smiled. “You've worked wonders with her. You've worked wonders with the whole place - it's perfect. I’m so proud of you, Serena.”

An arm round Bernie’s waist, she looked round the room in satisfaction. “We’ve done it together - wouldn't be the same without you.”

Bernie took a moment to enjoy their closeness, and looked round at their friends all gathered together. She frowned as she saw a familiar figure leaning over Dom. “Serena, what’s in that signature cocktail again? The Black Cat?”

“Vodka and rhubarb bitters topped off with Guinness. Oh, and a dash of blackcurrant. Why do you ask?”

“No reason…” Serena followed Bernie’s gaze, and they watched as Dom stood abruptly, angrily shaking Guy’s hand off his backside, and flung his Black Cat over his pristine white shirt. Guy stormed off into the spring night, dripping with indignation and black, as they leaned against each other, howling with laughter.

***

As the night wore on, the open bar took its toll, and eventually only the band and the die hard fans were left standing. Morven was sharing the piano stool with a young man with glasses and a sleepy smile, drunkenly duetting with him on a honkytonk rendition of _I got you babe_. Serena’s laugh bubbled up again at Bernie’s observation that she’d always liked Dusty Springfield. Morven broke off and came over to say goodnight to Ric.

“Night night Ric,” cooed Serena. “Give our love to Irma!”

“Isn't this one called Inge?” Bernie queried, waving at him with an impish smile.

Ric, good natured as ever, and used to the long running joke, just smiled and waved at them over his shoulder as he headed off into the night.

Morven put her hands on her hips. “What's _is_ his wife’s name, seriously? Is she awful? How come we never meet her?”

Bernie and Serena looked at each other and relented.

“Her name’s Susan, and she's perfectly lovely. She _is_ a leggy, surgically-enhanced blonde - she’s also sixty three, a grandmother five times over, and doesn’t care for jazz. She does care very much for Ric, though. I think it might be sixth time lucky.”

***

Shooing the last stragglers off the premises, Serena locked the door behind them, and they fell happily into the waiting taxi. Back at Serena’s, exhausted but happy, they showered and changed quietly, collapsing into bed. Serena’s eyes fell shut straight away, and she was almost asleep when Bernie shook her lightly, leaning up on one elbow.

“Serena?”

She opened one eye blearily and squinted up at Bernie, who kissed her mouth once, twice.

“I’m glad you stayed.”

Serena smiled as she fell asleep, humming in agreement. Bernie lay awake for a while, then joined her in slumber, their gentle snores a sweet duet in the small hours of the early autumn morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks! Thanks for reading, liking and commenting - this has been my first longer work, and I've loved sharing it with you. I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I've enjoyed writing it - I think I may have been bitten by the AU bug now... I'm on Tumblr with the same handle, and open to prompts :-)
> 
> Take five, jazz cats x


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